


Libertine

by SStar



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bottom Mycroft, Corsetry, Crossdressing, Established Relationship, Fluff, Intercrural Sex, Lace Panties, Lingerie, M/M, POV Mycroft Holmes, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-09 13:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1984515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SStar/pseuds/SStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock surprises Mycroft with his idea for an anniversary gift. After all the boys have never thought to celebrate one before.</p>
<p>Mycroft, much to his surprise, enjoys Sherlock's gift. A lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: all characters belong to ACD, Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC. I own nothing but my filthy mind.
> 
> Unbeta'd - all mistakes are my very own.

_I think Galvin at Windows_ , Mycroft muses as he unties his laces and toes his shoes off, socks following in short order so he can curl his toes into the plush carpet. _An opportunity to enjoy their menu dégustation_ , he decides as he pads up the stairs to change. _And given the chef’s aversion to butter and cream sauces it should appeal to Sherlock, vain creature that he is_ , Mycroft decides as he pushes his bedroom door open, making a mental note to add it to the list of items his diary assistant needs to confirm in the morning.

It was this – the distraction of selecting a restaurant for dinner with his brother the following evening – his ‘prize’ for winning the latest in their merry-go-round of board games earlier that day that means Mycroft doesn’t realise Sherlock is in his home until he comes across his little brother.

Although the confused messages his mind receives makes him wonder, for a fraction of a second, whether it is in fact Sherlock.

“What in god’s name are you wearing, Sherlock?” he forces past numb lips.

Sherlock rises elegantly, uncurling his long limbs, from the foot of Mycroft’s bed and affects an innocent look. “Isn’t that obvious?” he asks as his fingers brush over his chosen attire.

Mycroft can’t hold back an incredulous splutter as he takes in the sight of his little brother. He can’t comprehend what has possessed Sherlock to wear _that_.

The _that_ in question is a basque, made up of shaped panels of opulent black silk that clings to Sherlock’s lean torso with dark purple lace details at the bust – decorated with a pretty little bow at the centre – shoulder straps, hems and suspenders, also ending with the same decorated bow. The suspenders are attached to the gorgeous lace tops of the semi sheer stockings that encase Sherlock’s long legs. And under the suspenders, matching lace panties that are tied together with purple ribbons at each side.

There’s the faintest strip of bare skin where the basque ends and the panties start – which is just begging for Mycroft to lick a path across – and the rich, dark colours and lavish fabric set off the paleness of Sherlock’s body. Inexplicably, the feminine apparels only enhance his brother’s masculinity. A smart man would instinctively know that Sherlock is still a force to be reckoned with. Fierce, proud and true.

Mycroft would wonder why his mouth waters at the sight if he wasn’t so busy speculating _where_ Sherlock managed to get hold of such an outfit. He’s entirely certain it will be but a temporary gap in his knowledge.

His brother, who looks like he knows _exactly_ what Mycroft is thinking, which he probably does given Mycroft taught him the art of deduction, smirks. “Do you like it, brother mine?” 

_Oh god, yes._

Mycroft is hard. Of course he is. Better men than he would happily fall at Sherlock’s feet and Mycroft has known for many years that he is not a good man but a pragmatic one. He’s long since shed the last vestiges of guilt and worry that comes from regularly fucking his brother.

He’s also wearing entirely too much. His waistcoat is too tight around his chest, his tie constricts his ability to breathe. It feels all too suffocating.

But then Sherlock, like this – teasing, tempting, sensual – always makes Mycroft feel like there’s never enough. His little brother draws air to him like moths to a flame, and Mycroft will burn again and again to have Sherlock in his arms.

Sherlock spins on the spot and Mycroft gets a flash of his brother’s backside, an expanse of black silk, before his gaze dips to where the suspender straps frame his plush, pert posterior, which is clad in those sheer panties. Where Sherlock obtained stockings that fit his long limbs, Mycroft doesn’t care, but the way they sit at the top of his thighs means he’s presented with the stunning image of Sherlock’s framed arse and he think there’s only one appropriate, if rather uncouth, description for it. _Peachy._

“I had such trouble with the panties and the suspenders,” Sherlock says casually, as if this is an everyday occurrence. “All my research, all the photos indicate that knickers are worn under the suspender belt which seems to go against the practicalities of removing them.”

Mycroft reminds himself to breathe. _In. Out. Repeat._ It would be utterly _intolerable_ to faint before he gets the chance to ravish Sherlock. “Aesthetics tend not to account for the practicalities of life, Sherlock.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and tilts his head in acknowledgement. “I wasn’t about to let such illogical considerations get in the way,” he continues, as he traces the two purple ribbons at his hips with his index finger. “I think I found quite the elegant solution. Don’t you agree, Mycroft?”

“Ingenious,” Mycroft replies faintly. His gaze snaps up from Sherlock’s hips to his face and Mycroft flushes. “What are you doing here, Sherlock?”

“You won,” his brother replies casually. “You wanted company and dinner. Here I am. Aren’t I a delicious treat?”

“I meant dinner at a restaurant, Sherlock, as you well know.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes and glares back at him. “Would you rather I go back to Baker Street?”

“God, no.” Sherlock looks back at him and his gut clenches at the desire reflected in his brother’s eyes.

“Then why are you _still_ standing over there?” his brother demands, pouting.

He’s relieved when he doesn’t stumble in his haste to move as he strides forwards until he’s in front of his brother. Sherlock isn’t wearing shoes – stilettos – and Mycroft wonders how difficult it might be to find him a pair. Now closer, he can see Sherlock’s cock, half-hard already, pressing against the stretchy fabric of his panties and the small damp spot that was hidden by the dark fabric from a distance.

“Sherlock?”

His brother hums in reply, his eyes and hands focussed on releasing the myriad of buttons on his waistcoat.

Mycroft eyes, in turn, rove all over Sherlock’s lingerie-clad body and he can’t resist the urge to lay his hands on the smooth silk panels, wraps his arm around the narrow hips and pulls. His brother knocks into him with a small happy sigh. “Is this a new area you’re looking to explore? Or are you trying to tell me in your own particular way that our illicit, incestuous encounters are becoming stale of late?”

Sherlock tugs at his waistcoat and Mycroft helps to divest himself of the garment before nimble fingers start working at his cuff-links. “Mycroft, I can’t imagine anyone who truly knows you would find you ever remotely boring.”

Something about that statement makes Mycroft’s chest constrict. “Then why?” he manages to ask.

There’s a whisper of silk sliding along the stiff cotton of his collar as his brother removes his tie. “Did you know this weekend is John and Mary’s anniversary?”

“Is it relevant?”

Sherlock huffs into his ear as he wraps his hands around Mycroft’s middle and it’s a steadying, reassuring weight as he works the braces free. “John spent all of Monday and Tuesday worrying about what to get Mary as a gift. He ignored all of my perfectly logical suggestions.”

“Logical does not necessarily translate to romantic, Sherlock,” Mycroft offers as he shifts his hips. Their half-hard cocks brush through layers of cloth but the touch is enough to set off sparks up his spine and ratchets up the tension between them.

“Do stop being facetious, Mycroft,” Sherlock replies but drops a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth as an apology for the harsh words. “So John finally decided upon a suitable gift. Lingerie. It necessitated a trip to Ann Summers.”

Mycroft’s nose is buried in Sherlock soft, dark curls, muffling his reply. “Were you confused by the fact that the event of an anniversary demanded a gift or was it the gift itself?”

“Neither.”

He pulls back to better look see Sherlock’s face, to deduce his thoughts, but is restricted by the simple fact that Sherlock has his shirt in his hands and is unbuttoning it. Mycroft blinks, twice, three times but is still confused. “Tell me?”

“We’ve never celebrated an anniversary.”

Mycroft is temporarily lost for words, in fact, his brain seems to have seized up. He looks upon his little brother and he sees a faint blush blooming upon Sherlock's handsome features although that just makes his brother look more attractive, and he’s biting his lower lip in nervousness. But his eyes are steady and true. Mycroft realises he’s a little anxious in turn. “I never thought you wanted to,” he finally replies.

“I don’t know. Never thought about it before,” Sherlock responds. “Do you?”

“One can’t miss something one’s never had,” he replies, as he rests a hand on Sherlock’s chest, just above where his heart is nestled. Mycroft tilts his head and curls his lips into a reassuring smile. “Anniversaries, like Christmas and birthdays, are a society-led obligation to mark, to _celebrate_ , the passage of time.”

“Dull.”

Mycroft nods. “Although that being said, Sherlock, I find myself not averse to acknowledging our relationship in some manner if you like.”

Sherlock snorts. “Getting sentimental in your old age, Mycroft?”

He responds with a quick pinch at that slim gap between Sherlock’s basque and knickers and when his brother jumps at the touch, his body brushes against his own eliciting a low groan from both men. “Only just entering middle age you’ll find,” he chastises gently. “So this … outfit?”

“An experiment.”

Mycroft draws Sherlock back into his embrace. He’s busy tracking the patterns of lace and ribbons of Sherlock’s lingerie when he responds. “I thought we had an accord about you experimenting on me?”

“You know what I think of rules.”

Mycroft snorts as he chooses a spot at the base of Sherlock’s neck. He brushes his lips against skin, sucks and leaves the imprint of his teeth until he hears Sherlock’s shaky exhale. “And I must concede this is an entirely delightful experiment.”

He’s forced to release his brother’s neck when Sherlock lets out frustrated growl and ducks his head, concentrating on undoing the clasp of Mycroft’s trousers. When they slip off his legs, a puddle on the carpet that’ll leave creases not that Mycroft cares at this moment, all he’s left in is his briefs and the half-unbuttoned shirt.

Sherlock brings their hips together again and by now they’re both hard and panting. His own underwear bulges obscenely while the sheer black panties have long since lost the fight to contain Sherlock, his cock extending from the fabric and brushing against the black silk panels of the basque, leaving little trails of pre-come that Mycroft is tempted to lick away. 

“You should wear blue shirts more often,” Sherlock tells him as he finally unbuttons his shirt. “It suits you more than you think.”

Mycroft's face feels like its burning. Sherlock doesn’t compliment him all that often. Sibling rivalry may have given way to this lust, this desire and love between them but the foundations are still built upon memories of childish taunts and insults. Instead of words, Mycroft offers his appreciation in the form of kisses, trailing them up from shoulder to neck until he finally reaches Sherlock’s lips.

They kiss. Slow, lazy kisses that speak of their years together. Mycroft’s hands wander until he cups Sherlock’s arse, traces the scalloped edges of the panties and pulls at the suspenders so they snap back against Sherlock’s legs. “How are you finding your experiment so far, Sherlock?” he whispers against those plush, bow-shaped lips.

“Meeting expectations,” his little brother replies with a gasp. His own fingers are whispering across Mycroft’s back, under the starched blue shirt he’s so enamoured of. “Although if you’re obliging, I’d like to offer a short demonstration based on the research.”

Mycroft arches an eyebrow and nods, although that turns to surprise when a phone is thrust into his hand. “Sherlock,” he chastises in a low growl. “This is utterly irresponsible. I can’t take photos of-“

A hard kiss prematurely cuts off his lecture. When Sherlock pulls back, Mycroft _has_ to hold onto his brother lest his knees give out on him. Sherlock doesn’t comment, simply holds him until he feels able to stand on his own two feet.

“Don’t worry so, Mycroft,” Sherlock finally says, nodding at the phone. “Uploads have been disabled and it’s as secure as that of The Woman’s with a password only we know.”

“Acid?”

“More us, don’t you think?”

“I’m not sure about this, Sherlock. The risks-“

“Are mine to take, Mycroft,” his brother interrupts. “The only files on that will be of me. For you. If, in the small probability that you’re found in possession of it and it’s unlocked, you can claim you’d procured it in the prevention of a blackmail attempt on one or both of us.”

He can’t help the full-body shudder as the implications set in. Sherlock’s increased profile, Mycroft’s growing influence means they have less time together than both would like.

His brother, having left him standing a few feet from his bed, has made his way onto the aforementioned bed and is currently sprawled over it. “Do take a photo, Mycroft,” he orders as he raises an eyebrow, indicating Mycroft can ask his question.

Mycroft thumbs the phone controls and quickly finds the photo function and take a shot. Sherlock is made for the camera, especially with those cheekbones, he knows. And even this unplanned shot, in lingerie, his little brother still looks breathtakingly beautiful. Sherlock flips onto his hands and knees, turns his head back to look at Mycroft and although most of his body is frozen at the sight, his fingers seemingly of their own accord have managed to capture the picture.

The same action takes place when Sherlock, in much the same position, uses one hand to bunch the panties into the crack of his bum but before Mycroft can acknowledge it, Sherlock has flipped again, once more on his back, scrambling on the Egyptian cotton sheets until the myriad of pillows are at his back.

Sherlock drops his chin and looks back at Mycroft through thick, dark lashes. Sultry. Drags his fingers across his thighs covered by sheer stockings until they reach the crease between leg and pelvis before turning inwards. A distant part of Mycroft is still taking photos although most of his brain has stopped working since all his blood has flooded south. He can hear harsh intakes of air, his own he realises.

It’s when Sherlock starts rubbing the bulge distorting his lace panties that Mycroft throws the phone to the side and stalks over to the bed.


	2. Chapter 2

“Christ, Sherlock,” he moans as he pulls off his briefs before crawling onto their bed.

“Come here, Mycroft.” Sherlock holds out a hand which Mycroft takes and his brother pulls him until he’s spread over Sherlock. Faces, hips and groins aligned. Sherlock pulls him into a kiss – just light touches, sweet kisses. Affectionate pecks.

And as they kiss, Mycroft lifts his hands to card through Sherlock’s soft curls as he starts rolling his hips. Mirroring their kisses, his movements are light, fleeting. His cock grazing against the lace of his brother’s knickers, only now and then sliding over the protuberance of Sherlock’s own cock. Mycroft lets one of his hands drift lower, tracing a path down his brother’s lean torso clad in silk and lace. Once he reaches the scalloped edges of Sherlock’s panties, Mycroft teases a finger under the edge of the sheer material, brushing against the velvety skin of Sherlock’s hard cock.

“Oh my god,” his brother says in a rush. “Do that again.”

“I can do one better,” Mycroft promises, dipping his head for another kiss. This time licking into Sherlock’s mouth, turning the kiss dirty, wet and breathless.

At the same time, his finger pulls at the stretchy sheer panties and he shifts his hips until his cock slips under the fabric. His next thrust paints a strip of pre-come across both fabric and Sherlock’s cock, leaving a cooling damp sensation. He moans into Sherlock’s mouth – the feel of the different fabrics, of his brother’s body against his own skin sending his nerves aflutter.

Sherlock’s slides his hand between their bodies and clamps it around their two cocks, the only barrier the thin material of his panties. “Good lord, Mycroft. If I knew this was your reaction, I’d have done this _years_ ago.” Mycroft can only whimper at his brother’s dirty tone and the pressure of his hand on his still thrusting cock.

Mycroft can’t help but rut into the negative space created by Sherlock’s hand and cock. His brother’s panties are damp as their combined pre-come soaks into the fabric and Mycroft finds his thrusts comes quicker, slicker. “You’re insufferable,” he chastises but the impact is lost amongst the heavy breaths he needs to take.

“Look at you.” Sherlock looks up at him fondly and Mycroft feels himself blush.

“You’re the one who got the handsome genes,” Mycroft murmurs.

He huffs as Sherlock can’t help the split-second of preening at the compliment. His little brother never could, vain creature that he is. But he had long ago resigned himself to that fact. So it’s a surprise when his brother’s fingers tangle in his hair and pull him down for a demanding, possessive kiss. “You should see yourself when you come, Mycroft,” he replies. “It’s the most breath-taking sight I’ve ever seen.”

Sherlock’s fingers around their cocks tighten as Mycroft’s thrusts turn erratic. He can’t pull enough words together to make a coherent sentence.

“When your skin flushes, you look almost edible. And the way your eyes flutter. Your eyelashes. _Gorgeous_.” Sherlock’s ignores his inability to respond, instead pushes him further to the edge of release. “And the noise you make, Mycroft. You’re so articulate and prissy but in bed, when you’re reduced to moans and whimpers...”

Mycroft whimpers, as if on cue. His fingers dig into his brother’s body as his body starts to tense and he’s sure he’s leaving finger shaped bruises that’ll stain for days. Sherlock grins as he grips their cocks together through the thin panties.

“Come for me, brother,” he whispers, directly into Mycroft’s ear.

“I’ll ruin your panties.”

“I don’t care. I won’t need them because I’m going to fuck you.” His brother’s words are an indecent promise.

A small part of Mycroft wishes they could capture that moment but his mind throws up an image he’ll never forget. It’s as good as a photo. Of Sherlock, in his basque, suspenders and stockings – the clothes adding to, not detracting from, his masculinity. His cock stretching Mycroft open.

With a hoarse cry, Mycroft comes. Every part of his body tingles; his immediate thought is to keep breathing so it takes a moment for the wetness at his groin to register. But he barely has a moment to recover before he’s been manhandled by his brother onto his back. He can feel the fabric of his shirt gather in folds at his back, leaving creases that’ll take a professional to remove.

Sherlock looms over him, a temptation of black silk and pale skin. If he were prone to flights of fancy, Mycroft might call him a fallen angel.

Mycroft is still surfing the crest of his orgasm when he registers Sherlock is preparing him, slick fingers twisting and rubbing against him. His lax body easily yielding to his brother’s demands.

“I’d comment on your inherent laziness, brother dear, but I think you can be forgiven this time,” his brother comments as Mycroft’s eyelids flutter.

“How tremendously charitable of you.” Mycroft’s words are devoid of sarcasm, mostly because he’s focussed on breathing and moving his hips in counterpoint to Sherlock’s fingers. Mycroft whimpers when a third finger is added but the heated look in his hooded eyes make it clear how much he’s enjoying this.

When Sherlock’s free hand brushes between their bodies, Mycroft jerks, pulling at his brother’s abundant dark curls and eliciting a surprised grunt from the younger man. Sherlock’s response is to attack his shoulder, laying a track of small stinging bites towards his neck that will definitely bruise while his fingers and thumb sweetly tormented his lower body. His entire body is a mess of sensations and reactions that his brain is slow to decipher in his post-orgasmic haze.

Which is probably why he’s so surprised to discover he’s still hard. And if he really concentrates he can isolate the light tickle of pre-come trickling down his cock and making a mess on his belly.

What Sherlock inspires in him.

He reaches up to trace the sharp cheekbones and delicate lips before carding his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, smirking as his brother purrs. It widens when his fingers clench and pull. “Are you done dithering, Sherlock,” he huffs into the ear hovering at his face. “Or will you get a move on and fuck me now?” Mycroft punctuates his query by clenching around his brother’s fingers.

Mycroft looks on indulgently as Sherlock swears creatively, his curls obscuring his view as his brother’s fingers slip from his prepared hole and presumably using the excess lube on himself. When he releases his grasp on Sherlock’s hair, his brother moves until he’s half-crouched over Mycroft before deliberately and delicately pulling at the purple bows at his sharply jutting hips. The wispy lacy material floats to the bed but neither brother pays it any more attention.

There was something about Sherlock – the amalgamation of masculinity, lingerie – the constricted sensuality of the black silk basque, of sheer stockings in contrast to the raw obscenity of his wet, hard cock – that infatuates Mycroft. More than he’s already taken by his brother.

Sherlock grabs his hips and pulls. Mycroft gladly yields and slides along the sheets, spreading his legs for his brother to fit into. When Sherlock’s cock slides across and over his loosened hole, Mycroft shudders – brushing against the cool, soft silk panels encasing his brother’s torso. “Sherlock,” he whines.

“Eager for it, aren’t you,” his brother teases as he aligns their bodies until they are chest to chest, face to face.

Mycroft wraps an arm around the slim body above him, the other he curls around Sherlock’s neck. “Stop teasing, Sherlock.”

His brother merely huffs into the curve of his neck, all the while adjusting Mycroft’s long legs so they sit upon his brother’s stocking-clad thighs, giving Sherlock just the angle he needs. “But you do so enjoy the tease,” he offers back with another spine-tingling scrape of cock.

“I promise you, Sherlock, if you don’t do something right now,” Mycroft hisses between presses of wet lips against his brother’s cheek. “I _will_ make you regret it.”

“Impatient.”

“Irritant.”

“Impertinent,” Sherlock throws back before swooping down and capturing Mycroft’s lips in a filthy kiss.

It’s a distraction of course. Because just as Mycroft is becoming distracted by his little brother’s talented tongue and soft lips, Sherlock shifts his hips and slides into his prepared, open hole in one thrust.

Mycroft moans. Loudly. He loves this. The sensation of being filled, the soft, dull ache of having someone else inside of you. The heavy – and yet too light – weight of his brother on top of him.

And Sherlock’s initial tentative thrust fans the hot embers in the pit of his body. Each subsequent push and pull, of Sherlock’s lovely cock obscenely sliding in and out of Mycroft’s arse turns the embers into a hot, fierce twist of sensations, desire and need.

“More. Deeper,” Mycroft urges. “Oh god, yes.”

He knows he must look a sight. Eyes burning with a fevered intensity, hair askew and matted to his scalp with sweat. Pale skin flushed. But Mycroft doesn’t care. His fingers slip and slide across damp skin and silky fabric as his brother undulates above him.

Sherlock grunts as he gives a particularly wild thrust. But it’s still not enough. Mycroft wants to feel every bit of his brother.

“Harder,” he hisses. Punctuates his demand with a sharp nip to Sherlock’s neck. “I want … need you deeper, Sherlock.” Mycroft wriggles until his back is flat against the bed and he can lift his hips so that his ankles are crossed, resting upon the curve of Sherlock’s arse.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Sherlock swears as his hips fall forwards and Mycroft mewls happily when the entirety of his brother’s cock fills him, Sherlock’s balls slapping against his own body with each thrust.

Mycroft finds and connects with Sherlock’s mouth again, sharing hot, hungry kisses while his fingers skitter down the silk basque, across soft skin until he finds the suspender belt and straps. He plays with the delicate materials, occasionally pulling the straps taut before snapping it against Sherlock’s thighs. Fingers glide across the smooth stockings as he urges his brother on.

The bedroom is filled with the low murmur of Sherlock’s indecent observations and Mycroft’s harsh pants as he welcomes the hard _tremendous_ fucking his brother is giving him. Sherlock’s eyes are dark and intense and firmly fixed on Mycroft’s own face, as if he’s cataloguing and memorising each minute flicker and reaction. Mycroft’s cock is pressed between their two bodies, the dual sensations of hot skin and cool silk added to the pleasurable friction of Sherlock fucking him combines to set Mycroft perilously close to the edge of a second orgasm.

And Sherlock knows. Has seen all the signs.

“You like this. Me. In this.”

Mycroft huffs. “I think the evidence speaks for itself, don’t you?”

He feels the press of Sherlock’s smile against his throat. “Perhaps we might indulge again for our next anniversary?”

“Agreed.”

Sherlock squints down at him, the slide of his cock almost coming to a standstill. “Pardon?”

“For _god’s sake_. Don’t stop now!” Mycroft demands. His position on his back, the way his brother holds him means he can’t shift his body.

“You agree?”

“Of course,” Mycroft is a little confused, which matches Sherlock’s confusion. “Really is this the time?”

“You’re agreeing with me,” Sherlock repeats. “Agreeing to celebrate the passing of time, as you put it earlier.”

“Sherlock, we’re in the middle of sex and I was just about to come again before you so graciously and thoughtfully _stopped_ ,” Mycroft growls. “I would have, in all likelihood, agreed to whatever you said.”

“Oh really?” His brother has a devilish look in his eyes.

“Well most reasonable things,” Mycroft amends before turning his practised glare onto his younger brother. “Now will you start moving again?”

With a smug smile, Sherlock does. His movements start hard and sharp, growing faster and more erratic. If Mycroft strains over the harsh breaths and the pounding of blood in his ears, he can hear the wet squelching noises as Sherlock’s cock slaps into his slick hole. And Sherlock adds to the sounds in his own distinctive baritone. Of growls and whimpers, as Mycroft clenches around his cock, or drags his blunt fingernails across any exposed skin.

Then Sherlock hits the right angle that makes Mycroft cry out. With his lower body restrained by Sherlock’s own, his brother is free to thrust back in again and again, dragging his cock over Mycroft’s prostate. Until Mycroft comes with a loud roar, black and white spots in his vision.

Mycroft is only vaguely aware of the wetness pooling on his stomach, from his own orgasm, and the warm, wet sensation of come slipping from his well-fucked hole when he regains coherency. He blinks but before he can formulate the thought, Sherlock strides back into the bedroom, beautiful and stark naked, with a damp towel in his hand.

“Congratulations, Mycroft,” Sherlock comments smugly as he wipes at his body, cleaning away the worst of the sweat and semen. Normally Mycroft would respond with condescension but he can clearly see the slight hints of concern and affection in the wrinkles on his brother’s face. “You passed out.”

He had, Mycroft realises. He can’t quite recall Sherlock’s own orgasm, although there’s the echo of a deep thrust and grinding and the impressions of fingers pressing into his skin. Although it could only have been mere minutes. “I hope I didn’t cause too much alarm.”

“Alarm? Of course not. You’re too prim and proper to die on me in bed,” Sherlock replies. “Although I will take it as proof of my prowess in this regard.”

“Do kindly shut up, Sherlock,” Mycroft grouses, temporarily at a loss of a proper response.

“Sexual prowess.”

“Brat.”

Sherlock throws the soiled towel into the laundry basket just inside the bedroom en-suite before his expression turns pouty.

Mycroft bites back the groan as he rolls onto his side, reaching out an arm to pull at Sherlock until his brother lies next to him. “What now?”

“Nothing.”

“Try again.”

His brother has pouting down to an art. Mycroft can predict the second Sherlock will pull at his lower lip to accentuate his pout. Finally Sherlock deigns to answer, looking at Mycroft through narrowed eyes, although his gaze is only barely touching irritated. “You ruined my outfit.”

“An explanation if you will?”

“When you came you made a mess all over my basque,” Sherlock replies in a short tone.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft starts.

“Shut up, Mycroft. I don’t need platitudes.”

Mycroft merely rolls his eyes and shifts his body so he can drop a quick soft kiss on his brother’s lips. “I wasn’t going to offer them.”

“Good.”

“But I was going to say that I’ll buy as many of those outfits as you like, Sherlock.”

Sherlock coughs sharply in surprise. “What?”

“Going deaf, brother dear?”

“No! Buy?”

“As many as you like.”

“What for?”

He smiles enigmatically. “Do I need a reason?”

“Yes.”

“You liked it, I liked it. A repeat performance would not be unwarranted.”

“You did mean it.”

“Of course. When do I say things I don’t mean wholeheartedly?”

His brother throws him a quick glare. “When you’re lying to me.”

“Protecting you.”

Sherlock makes a discontented noise. “Same thing.”

“Let’s not argue,” Mycroft tries.

“Fine.”

“Are you staying?”

“The whole night? Yes,” Sherlock confirms. “You know what that means.”

Mycroft sighs. But it’s worth it to have Sherlock in his arms, in his bed for the night. “Breakfast in bed. Giving you the opportunity to acquire anything useful that’ll help you circumvent internal security, access classified locations and hack databases.”

“No need to sound so despondent,” Sherlock chastises. “You know you like it because it’s the one way you know I’ve had real food.”

Mycroft isn’t sure if he wants to kiss his little brother to shut him up or give him a hard swat on his plush arse.

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 is pure, unadulterated smut I'm afraid but until I have my laptop, it'll have to wait. Editing just this bit nearly killed me!
> 
> Enjoy. X


End file.
